Monthly Archives: November 2010

Now is not laurel resting time. Just because I could use my once broken shoulder to pat myself on the back doesn’t mean it is time for back-patting. Nobody celebrates a job half-done. America did not win the race halfway to the moon, we went all the way. My regime is still dictating my regimen and I will need the complement of my full regiment to do it.

I made my Florida loop this past weekend and checked in with my family and dropped in at Wellness Camp for the weekend for a booster shot of stay humble.

I think I’m going to Santos for Thanksgiving tomorrow morning. I can’t think of a better way to give thanks than a visit to Florida’s single track Mecca. I enjoyed a robust solo ride on the north side yesterday. There were new trails with signs and everything. I guess it had been a while since I toured the northern grounds.

I won’t keep you, as I don’t have anything very interesting to say this morning.

– but it should be. If you don’t do yoga then you must hate your body. There is really no other reasonable justification. I just need to get that off my chest.

Man oh man, what a spectacular weekend we are enjoying here in the Big Bend area of Florida. I was out there. I want to be counted among the ones who were out there. High 70’s and a light freshness to the breeze. Know that I have been places and seen people. Places I have not been to in some time and people I have not seen in quite a while either.

I visited with almost the entire BikeChain Borg down at the Cyclocross races. That cyclocross stuff is confusing. It looked like people queuing up at COSTCO, or maybe a bunch of bike commuters late for work. I just don’t get it. All that plastic tape is so displeasing to the eye.

Big grey fox squirrels, Dogboy with a cut the size of a coin slot in his chin his blood is green, a prehistoric palm grove far from town, and my own knees pumping those pedals all weekend long.

This is not a picture of me, but of another hapless schlub who couldn’t keep his photo off the internet with a big swollen, bee-stung lip. When you hear this expression it is usually a compliment, referring to Angelina Jolie’s perpetual pout. On a man though, not so sexy. The incident occurred at Tom Brown Park while I was handily handling Mystery’s occasional attacks on the trail. As we were swooping down the flow track basin- POW! Right in the kisser. I caught the yellow-jacket in the corner of my mouth and trapped it beneath a bicuspid. Mystery stopped due to the gargling,choking sounds which were different from my normal gargling and choking sounds and with some urgency I spat the Dolichovespula into my gloved hand and crushed it.

I had no choice but to ride on, as we were not well-placed for a bail out from this point. As we rode I could feel my face getting heavier and the intolerable stinging sensation subsided into a deep throb. I took a sip from my water bottle and somehow poured water all down the V of my jersey.

When we stopped riding 15 minutes or so later I asked Mystery to tell me if my lip looked swollen. His response? Instantaneous whooping and laughter. He tried to take a picture with his phone, but lucky for me he is so technically unsavvy he did not realize he was actually holding a patch kit, thereby sparing me the humiliation.

By the time I got home my lip had grown to the size of a boiled hot dog and I had something new to whine about.

This humanitarian aide group was one of my early inspirations to pursue a life of service to people in crisis. You might think I sit around on the Internet all day, and you would almost be correct, but someone needs to cover the Internet. We can’t all drive the trucks. Some of my friends worked with this group and I had the opportunity to work with members of this crew in Bosnia and back here in Tallahassee, but that’s a different story. The story I’m telling is about these young folks from all over the planet, who came together to act against murder, terror, starvation, and fear.

The story as they tell it is a hilarious account of heavy drinking, large vehicles, remarkable courage, and incomparable stupidity. At the peak of their influence Rolling Stone magazine dubbed them the “most rock-n-roll aide humanitarian aide agency in the world.” I’m not sure if there were any competitors for the title, but SRT was more than enough.

You can read about them at the link above if you want. If you are pondering a move towards a change in your life that requires audacity and courage I think you may find their story inspiring.

Alas, nothing gold can stay and SRT fell victim to their own success, but not until after they had given evil a black eye in some of the most hopeless and dangerous places in the world: Bosnia, Romania, the Palestinian Territories, and Sudan to name a few. Their legacy lives on and when something absolutely must be done, because to not act is unconscionable, we can all reach for our clown noses and our car keys and make something happen.

I didn’t drive a Bedford over Mt. Igman, but I was lucky enough to learn a bit of the SRT way and I have the t-shirt to prove it.

I ran outside in my underwear at 3:00 in the morning to make sure my windows were rolled up on the Safari. They were. I jumped back under the covers still damp and shivered until I fell back to sleep and dreamt I was an R&B singer at the end of his career. I still had the pipes but I was jaded on the scene.

I’m up now and it is still pouring. This is good for my new hedge I planted. Camellias and Box Heather so I get two flower shows during the year. I didn’t think to ask if they will overlap in one spectacular show at any point. I can hardly stand the suspense of not knowing.

Sometime during the camping trip last weekend I left the Clydesdale club. I’m still no waterbug so let’s not get too excited. I think I know when it happened. We were climbing miles of forest road and one particular grade almost had my number. I wanted to get off and walk, but I didn’t. I just looked straight down and turned the pedals. I think that is when I burned block of butter 28 and possibly 29. The singletrack at Unicoi State Park is like riding up and down a saw blade. We screwed up the route, but Dave P. stripped down and got in the creek at a very public crossing so that kind of evened things out.

Last night I ate an entire bunch of raw mustard greens and a small bowl of brown rice. It was a delicious dinner.

When I was eleven or twelve I tried earnestly to change my name to Jake. I’m not sure what I was reading at the time, but the idea got in my head somehow that “Jake” was a cooler, tougher, and more dashing derivative of Juancho than “Johnny” as I was widely known. I tried assertive measures like:

Coach “Butch” Downing: “Johnny get over there with Levi and Joe, you’re on skins team.”

Jake: “It’s Jake Coach, just call me Jake.”

Coach “Butch” Downing: (pause) “I SAID YOU’RE SKINS, I DIDN”T ASK YOU WHAT YOUR NAME IS- GO RUN A LAP!”

(Jake runs a lap.)

I also tried subtle techniques like signing my homework “Jake Doe”. My History Teacher, Ms. Betty Phillips would read off the names while passing our work back to us and when I saw her well-traveled face scrunch up like she sucked on a lemon I knew she was holding Jake’s homework.

Ms. Betty Phillips: “JAKE? WHO IN THE TAR IS JAKE?”

(Jake raises his hand.)

Ms. Betty Phillips: (Shakes head and spits in the trash can) “JAKE?”

(Jake slinks up the aisle to retrieve highest grade in class homework.)

It’s true. Jake killed World History.

In time my dreams of becoming Jake passed. I put Jake’s denim British touring cap in the back of his underwear drawer and settled into a placid adolescence as Juancho, as you know me now- you’re humble(except for the 104 Average in World History) blogger.

Look what has sneaked right up on us, the Cheaha 2010 camping trip! Thursday morning we roll out for the Helen, GA area for a long weekend of chopping wood. A few weeks ago I was a straight up zero, but somehow I pulled it together and I’m rolling out a hero. That’s right, I’m ready to ride.

I’m doing this trip on the wagon, which to put it mildly, is not the norm. I have done it once before, but we’re talking twenty years of camping here. I’m excited for it. I will be up with the dawn and exploring long before my cohorts stagger towards the ibuprofen bottle and coffee pot. I will go to bed hours earlier and miss the campfire debates on: Gun Control, Columbus Day, Fantasy Football, the politics of 2020, organic elitism, dietary hegemony, and the exact measured depth of a twelve foot well.

I have an inflatable mattress, a copy of Infinite Jest, and the will to lay on one and stare confusedly at the other for as long as it takes, or until Sunday.